


The Prince's Expedience

by thisisashittyusername



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Early Pensieve AU, M/M, The (Prince's) Tale that Came Early, bro i never read the books, god i can already imagine me fucking their characterizations up IM SO SORRY, i am severely lacking in harry's sass and snape's general unpleasantness, i'll fucking botch this i think, was the title lmao but the current is way better
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:42:11
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28462575
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thisisashittyusername/pseuds/thisisashittyusername
Summary: Harry, fresh from his battle with Quirrell over the Philosopher's Stone, looks for the man he had terribly misjudged over the year: Professor Snape. Things take a serious turn when he falls into the Pensieve on Snape's desk.He isn't quite ready to see them yet, not for a good six years or so.
Relationships: Harry Potter/Severus Snape
Comments: 17
Kudos: 61





	1. Chapter 1

_…I would have succeeded. Even with Snape muttering his little countercurse._

_Snape was trying to save me?_

Harry replayed the memory in his head, not exactly knowing what to think anymore. The whole school year, it just _felt right_ pinning it all to Snape. The man was suspicious, and mean-spirited, and had a great big nose, and he hated Harry, and for the love of God, _wore all-black_. He was the perfect villain to foil in Harry’s first year at Hogwarts.

Except for the rather major detail that he was not. It was jarring – expecting the brooding image of the overgrown bat, down the trap door Fluffy was guarding – only to find himself face to face with none other than Professor Quirrell. Sure, the man seemed strange enough the first time Harry ever met him; but then again, wasn’t everyone? Wasn’t this _entire_ world strange to Harry the very first chance at exposure he got with it? Granted, there was a subliminal familiarity to all of it – as if the low, throbbing pulse of magic in his blood was finally, magnificently sated at finding himself in Diagon Alley – but in a conscious level, everything was new, and unknown, and strange.

He was young to all this, he knew. _Magic_. Harry doubted that the great feelings that had enveloped him, walking down the Great Hall for his Sorting, wouldn’t leave him yet for some time to come. Right now, he felt as though it would never cease to amaze him, probably a couple or several years down the line. Everything was just too novel to understand or know just yet, and he was willing to admit that he just didn’t have all the answers for it.

The same, maybe, could have been said for Snape.

(And in an uncharacteristic turn, feeling somewhat indebted to the man and sheepish for his own actions the whole year, Harry reminds himself: _Professor_ Snape.)

Which is exactly why he found himself exploring the lower levels, in pursuit of the older man. Pausing by a Potions classroom, only for a peek, he continued on his way after deeming it vacant.

 _If there’s any room down here he might be in, it’s his office,_ Harry thought to himself, eyeing the distant door. He zoomed quickly toward the great mahogany, at the very end of the corridor, not exactly thrilled by how dark and cold the corridors in this particular area of the castle were.

Stepping closer, he found the office door ajar. With some hesitance, he decided to step in.

“Professor?” he breathed quietly.

The room itself seemed vacant. Nothing but the glass jars neatly shelved on the wall, filled to the brim with various potions ingredients – some murky, some slimy, some still moving. Harry stamped down the full-body shudder that almost wracked through him.

Looking around, Harry had noticed a rather large door opposite the one he had just entered. It was flanked in both sides by a great, green curtain; he certainly would have mistaken it for a window, had the curtains been drawn shut. Considering the architecture of the castle, Harry’s mind supposed that the imaginary window could have been looking out into the Hogwarts lake; but then again, whatever room was behind the door could have easily housed that view.

While the office area itself seemed dank and generally unpleasant – what with all the critters and mashed ingredients stuffed in preservatives – he wondered about the private room, whether it was tended to, or warm, or homey. In the back of his mind, he knew how easily he could have imagined cobwebs hanging down the ceilings, with chains and manacles on the damp brick walls – but he also accepted how severely he had misjudged his professor, and by extension, everything else about him – the assumption about webs and wall-tethered restraints included.

Harry flushed slightly, recalling how he wasn’t exactly in here to think about interior design. “Professor,” he called out again. He took another step into the office, somewhat hoping he could be better heard by doing so, until a glint by his right caught Harry’s eye.

It was a weird-looking thing, much like a wash basin but without the spout or the neck. As such, it seemed to be floating over the rich walnut wood of Snape’s desk. The basin itself looked to be made of stone or some lumpy metal, and various carvings Harry couldn’t understand, much less read, were made around its mouth. What truly had Harry’s attention, though, was what the basin held inside it. It seemed to be liquid, but it didn’t move as fluidly; almost like gas, he thinks, and the vapors of dry ice seemed an apt enough description.

Wispy threads seemed to float inside the liquid, each of them luminous and bright. He squinted at the light they shine, but nonetheless leaned forward to try and view them more clearly. Despite their thinness, he could almost make out certain images – of fresh, green eyes, and a graying beard, and –

x x x

A rough hand jerks him out. Potter sputters, as if he’d held his breath the entire time, and was now only able to breathe. He lets the hand throw him down the cold concrete ground, and he’s so clearly disoriented he doesn’t even get up, nor does he snap in that blasted Potter arrogance.

Snape watches Harry’s hands come up to his face. “What – do you think –” he pauses to see the boy’s form shaking, but Snape has little mercy. In fact, he’s _seething_. “–you’re doing _here?_ ”

By now, Harry’s gasping like he just might hyperventilate. The seemingly obvious show, to garner some pity, makes Snape savagely kneel by the Gryffindor to take his thin arms in his grasping hands. _The audacity, to invade my privacy and act so burdened for it._

“ _Answer my question!_ ” Snape bellows, too closely, and the boy flinches. He looks at Snape, and just as much as Snape feels overwhelmed at the sudden, beautiful _green_ of Lily’s eyes on him- he synchronously feels horrified at the genuine, breathless terror in Harry’s eyes.

“I – I’m –” Harry struggles to get out, his breaths uneven, and Snape belatedly realizes the tears spilling forth, from the boy’s brilliant eyes down his fat cheeks. “I’m – should – _Was I supposed to_ _die_?”

Snape recalls the memories he had stored in Dumbledore’s borrowed Pensieve, wondering exactly what has Potter shaken – and he has to consciously calm the burning, heavy, _exasperated_ exhale that forces itself out of his lungs.

"How much did you see?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really kind of liked the concept of first year Harry having the plot-related knowledge seventh year Harry gets. I just feel like it could have saved a lot of lives, and forged entirely new relationships and dynamics, you know?
> 
> This fanfic (attempts to) deal(s) with exactly that: Harry, recovered from the Quirrell fight, finds himself falling into Snape's Pensieve, which has both the OotP and DH memories. Suddenly, Harry knows a lot more than he can probably manage to process: for starters, how Snape's ultimately on their side. A lot of those memories depend on events that are yet to happen- for one, Dumbledore's curse via Gaunt ring- so let's just assume those things have already happened lmao 
> 
> I really just had this concept because I liked Severus/Harry lol. But I haven't really read the books and pored over every detail; I just actually read the text when certain parts of the movie didn't make sense to me. So, I really do expect that I'd be botching this fanfiction. I'd like to apologize in advanced for any reader who may be a bigger fan than me, who expected something a little more decent. 
> 
> Lastly, I'd like to say that I don't condone teacher-student relationships in reality. I'm lenient with Sev/Harry because this is fiction, but these kinds of relationships aren't sustainable or healthy (taken outside the classroom) in real life. Trust me, I'm a Harry in my own right.


	2. Chapter 2

“ ‘You’ve been raising him like a pig for slaughter’. That’s – that’s what you said,” Harry answers, after a while.

Immediately after fishing the boy out the Pensieve, he had demanded how Harry was able to get into his supposedly warded office, only to find that he had left the door open. Waging a war within himself – whether to throttle Potter for his daring, or throttle himself for his own carelessness – Snape then had Harry calm down and sit by his lounger, before rummaging through his stores. Not exactly equipped to deal with the emotional wreck by doting and coddling him – God knows everyone else can fall apart for their beloved Savior – he had merely handed him a Draught of Peace and let the potion make quick work of the blubbering, hyperventilating Potter.

He had watched the first year breathe a couple steady breaths before deciding that now was the proper time for answers.

“And he said yes,” Harry adds, voice quiet.

Snape supposed that was easy enough to handle. The boy did need to hear about it at some point – though the emotional turmoil that must be going through the boy now was enough to make Snape’s head _ache_. A moping, dramatic Potter was just what he needed for the following school years. “That was all you saw?”

“No, I – ” Harry pauses. “I saw… my father.” His eyes dart quickly toward Snape, assessing, before looking down, apparently not liking the expression that the older man’s face took on. “And my mother.”

“Enjoyed yourself, did you, _Potter_?” Snape can’t help the sudden vitriol in his voice, the cruel curling of his lip as he spits the name like a curse. “Loved to see the mean, sadistic professor getting his come-uppance?” He can’t stop the way he walks toward Harry, step by step, slow and menacing, like a snake preparing to strike. And god, did he wish Harry would say something – something _snarky_ or _sarcastic_ just so he can let all hell loose and be justified in doing so. “Levitated by the ankle and _stripped_ , Gryffindors all there to watch – you must have reveled in it.”

It’s a surprise when Harry looks him in the eye, dead serious. “No.”

“Don’t _lie_ to me, Potter, I know you did–” Snape snarls, viciously, staring Harry down as he performs Legilimency for yet another time this entire school year. Unversed to the ways of Occlumency, the boy was like an open book, and freely, Snape delved into him.

“Blessed Potter Senior, he can never do wrong,” he says, just to provoke Harry’s emotions. Feelings of anger and guilt burst forth, he can feel it- _shut up snape shut up snape shut up snape im sorry snape_ – but neither as strong as the _shame_ and _uncertainty_ that vehemently flares in Harry at the mention of the name.

The thoughts inside his mind were not like words on parchment to read, per se, but the amalgamation of feelings and images rattling in Harry formed a distinct flavor, so formidable they hit Snape as solidly as any written declaration.

_should i be proud to be a potter  
hes not a hero but he died protecting me he died for me  
my father loved me he was proud of me  
am i proud of my father_

For the first time since meeting Harry, Snape is genuinely taken aback. Harry watches the telltale signs of his shock – the parted lips, the raised eyebrow- before Snape catches himself and takes a moment to collect his wits.

“What were you doing in my office?” Snape asks, voice barely above a whisper. Any louder and he feared that this tenuous but welcome calm, brought on by his shaken view of Potter, would dissipate.

Seemingly understanding, Harry himself replies quietly. “I was going to apologize. To you.”

It’s another hit to Snape’s image of Harry in his head. “Whatever for?”

“I… It was Quirrell. All this time,” Harry tells him. “I misjudged you.”

Legilimency still ongoing, he prods Harry’s mind a little more. He can see the image of Quirrell, imposing, the foreground to a large, impressive dungeon. The man is scowling, his turban removed, and Snape can see the vision of The Dark Lord’s face as reflected by the Mirror of Erised behind him.

He can catch some snippet of a conversation, between Quirrell and Potter – can only hear the muffled sounds of voices, like he was underwater –

_snape tried to kill me_

_no dear boy i tried to kill you  
i would have succeeded even with snape muttering his little countercurse_

_snape was trying to save me_

He closes the connection between their minds, but he keeps his gaze trained on the boy, actually _seeing_ him now. Harry looks back at him, eyes a little shy but nonetheless standing their ground.

He did look too much like James, _was_ James to an unfathomable degree – the hair, the glasses, the lithe musculature, the carefree air of him, especially during Quidditch – but now, Snape was jolted enough to second guess himself. James never would have doubted himself, arrogant prat that he was, but for Harry to feel so unsure of him – not to mention, have _her_ eyes…

“Will you take points, Professor?” Harry asks him, refusing to look away first.

“Yes. Wonderful suggestion, Mr. Potter,” Snape replies after a moment of silence. “Five points for trespassing.” He finds he can say nothing more – he does not snap, or ridicule, or even contemplate hexing Harry. He simply feels _drained_ , down to the bones.

Harry gives him a look he can’t quite decipher. A little unsettled by everything that’s happened so far, he feels the need to add, “And, _of course_ , I might have a word with the Headmaster regarding your… indiscretion.”

Snape expects a fight.

“Of course,” Harry just echoes.

He dismisses Harry, inclining his head toward the door. Harry dutifully takes his leave, though at the doorway, he takes a moment to look Snape over. Snape hates the way Harry seems to be so composed – a striking contrast to how indignant and vulnerable Snape feels at the moment, having had his most intimate secrets perused by an eleven year old boy, let alone the son of both his infernal enemy and the love of his life.

Even more jarring is that Snape’s apparently been beat down to speechlessness, a far cry from the vile, nasty fury he knows himself capable to be – but the slight shaking of the boy’s hands are not lost on him.

Maybe they are both fraying along the edges.

“What are you waiting for?” he sneers at Harry, hoping to goad him out of that disconcerting silence and the awareness that’s clear in his eyes.

Harry merely shakes his head and walks away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i uhhhhh actually really hate writing lmao ADJDJS


	3. Chapter 3

“Headmaster,” Snape starts, striding into the Headmaster’s Office with a stiffness that bellies his urgency.

“Ah, Severus,” Albus greets, the twinkle in his eye warm and welcoming. He gestures to the seat across his desk; Snape opts to ignore it, pacing the room instead. “I would offer some tea, perhaps even a pleasant chat – although it seems something rather pressing is on your mind.”

Snape does not waste time with beating around the bush. “The boy has seen –” and he pauses, having to push an exhale out his nose, desperately wanting to calm himself down. “ _–everything._ ”

“Ah.” The headmaster simply states.

“He has seen – my – my _history_ ,” Snape says, disgust lacing the word, “with his father. He has seen my weakness for his mother. He has seen me as the spy, and him as the sacrificial lamb –” He can almost feel a genuine migraine at the chewing out he knows he deserves. He almost wants to beg for forgiveness, yet at the same time blame Potter’s bullheadedness – for entering his office unannounced, unwelcome, _unwanted_ –

The lack of comment has Snape turning to face Albus, almost hurting his neck at the quickness of the action, only to find that the headmaster is busy preparing himself his own cup of tea. Snape has to wonder whether the act is one of willful ignorance or sheer senility. “Listen to me, Albus,” he almost feels inclined to beg.

“I am. Only, I do not quite understand why you seem so frustrated…”

Snape snaps. “ _Which part_ of this entire charade does not warrant my frustration? He knows _everything._ ” The seeming carelessness of the older man makes Snape renew his pacing twofold.

“Then he knows better than to vilify you, as you were convinced he has done all year,” Albus tells him sagely. “Dare I say, he might even seek out your company. You are, after all, the closest connection he can ever have with his parents.”

“No,” the Head of House simply says, seething at the undeniable validity of the Headmaster’s guess. “No, I will not allow it. His knowledge of me is dangerous, Dumbledore, how can I make you see sense? He could compromise me, deliver me onto The Dark Lord’s grasp – have me pay for betraying him –”

“I doubt Harry would put you in harm’s way, if he believed you to be his ally.”

“The Dark Lord has his ways.”

Albus looks at him from the top of his crescent-shaped glasses. “And I have mine.” The look he gives Snape is nothing short of menacing, and Snape is momentarily cedes to hear him. “Regardless, Severus: were it not _you_ , between the two of us, who was convinced that The Dark Lord is gone?”

“Were it not _you_ who seemed convinced of the contrary?”

“Then let _me_ worry about his return,” the older wizard says, once again returning his sights on his tea. “– and let _yourself_ worry about other things. Making amends with Harry, for one.”

“Making amends!” Snape has to sputter, unbelieving. “After _he_ had the audacity to trespass into my private rooms – into my _intimate memories_ –”

“I intended for the boy to know of his destiny so much more later,” Albus cuts in, “only in my hope that he could have a chance to as normal of a life as he can, here at Hogwarts. Yet…” and he fixes a glance on Snape that makes the Potions master want to fold into himself.

He does not. He stands his ground, proud.

“You will have to take this matter into your own hands, Severus. He has seen _your_ memories. He will have to make peace with them, through your guidance – maybe allow yourself to find peace as well.”

“ _Peace_ ,” Snape spits. “You’d ask me to make peace with the fact that the boy’s father was a sorry git who made my life miserable? Make _my_ peace with the knowledge that his godfather – the bloody felon he is, may he rot in Azkaban for the rest of his unimpressive life – almost _killed_ me? You remember, do you not, Headmaster?”

“Severus –”

“You would _ask me_ to assuage Potter and his belabored doubts, just so he can frolick carefree and empty-headed, strutting about the castle headstrong and sure of himself? A luxury _his father_ never afforded me, a luxury _no professor_ protected for me?”

“Yes, because as you were free to choose your _own way_ in your youth, Harry’s was set in stone, even before he was born,” Albus cuts once more, this time harsh and almost combative. He stares Snape down, a steely look in his eye, no room left for argument. “And what a _way_ it was. _You know what you caused, Severus;_ should you need the reminder, it is exactly why you’ve agreed to work with me.”

Snape’s mouth abruptly shuts, his hands shaking at his sides. He hates how easily Albus can bring his greatest regret up like this – a complete 180 for Snape, who, moments ago, was feeling indignant and righteous fury, only to be shackled down by this sudden remorse – but he cannot fight the logic behind the Headmaster’s words. Snape _knew_ he had done wrong, which was why he was trying so hard to make up to it.

He knows he cannot possibly achieve anything remotely close to it.

“It is the least we can do for him,” Dumbledore sighs, and suddenly the man looks every bit the age he is in years. “The fate of the Wizarding World, the responsibility of a movement much, much older than he is – rests solely on his shoulders. _You know this._ ”

He told Dumbledore the prophecy. He hadn’t heard the entire thing, but he had heard enough. “I do,” he agrees, hesitant.

“I will not defend Sirius, nor James; if your reaction now is any indication, I’ve severely underestimated how badly they have affected you. And I ask for your forgiveness.” It is the closest Snape can have to closure at the moment – not that Snape can hope to get it from either man at the moment. Albus himself illustrates in his next words, “As it is, Sirius is, as you say, rotting in Azkaban and might never see the light of day. James is dead. Hopefully, it can be somewhat of a reprieve for you, to know that a semblance of justice may be gleaned from it…”

It does not feel relieving. It only feels more like Snape’s been boxed in, forced to accept the circumstances yet never truly finding the vindication he needed.

He does not tell the Headmaster as much.

The old man’s weary eyes close, as if preparing himself for Snape’s reaction at what he will say next. “I will ask you to be easy on young Harry, Severus. He is too new to this world, and already, so much has tainted the novelty of it all. It is only too short of a time before the wonders of moving staircases pass him; when he finally feels the full brunt of the world’s weight fall onto him. It might begrudge you, to think you are serving the whims of James’ son, but he is Lily’s, too.”

Dumbledore’s eyes open and catch his gaze. He does not have to say it, but Snape hears it all the same: _You know what you caused._

“I…” Snape has to swallow, despite the thickness in his throat. “I will endeavor to do so, Headmaster.”

Albus fixes him with a smile. Despite the fury simmering inside him, Snape tilts his head in acknowledgment. He walks toward the door, eager to be rid of the older wizard’s presence, when Albus calls out to him suddenly.

“And I hope this might teach you a thing or two about properly closing your doors. You’ve once asked me to swear never to reveal the best of you, yet it seems you’re fully capable of sharing that greatness yourself.”

The steady smile on Dumbledore’s face seems mocking, but Snape knows, at the back of his mind, that the old, meddling fool meant it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i understand why people hate dumbledore. he really is an old meddling fool, set to use everyone like pawns. but tbh lowkey i can respect that. everyone was so motivated by their own personal drama / issues that it was easily to lose track of the bigger picture: defeating evil. i feel like dumbledore had to be sneaky and manipulative in order to assure the best level of success for "the light". i don't agree with his methods, honestly, but i can understand surrending yourself to a cause that's so much bigger than you. 
> 
> make no mistake though, dumbledore is not the pinnacle of "the light". he's fucking whack af, he was an aspiring voldemort too before his sister died and he felt bad about it. he wanted to be gay and do hate crimes with grindelwald. this bitch is literal whack. tbh he has no right shitting on snape like he did, both here and in canon, because he was the same- he just backed out as soon as his loss happened (ariana's death) where snape didn't (lily's friendship). but like honestly i fucking get him though


	4. Chapter 4

The notebook was grasped tightly in Snape’s hand as he begrudgingly approached Harry. He didn’t exactly finalize the decision, in his head, giving it to the boy; he had merely wanted to keep his options open. In the back of his mind, he always knew a memory charm was a choice – a quick _obliviate_ and Potter wouldn’t even have remembered seeing his memories. He would be back to being the insufferable, sassy dunderhead he’s always been, strutting about like he owned the castle – nothing like the seemingly chastened, quiet child he was days ago, in his office, looking at Snape with an infuriating awareness in his eyes and a dangerous air of despair around him.

It would have certainly saved him the effort and the absolute madness of having to _make up with him_ , as Albus had ordered him to do. But something stopped him – whether the hope that this Potter may be different, whether he thought so much had already been taken from Potter, whether he actually wanted someone to _witness_ what Albus thought was his one saving grace – he did not exactly know.

He can almost imagine it, the bright wisps of thread that would emanate from Harry’s eyes, slithering themselves into Snape’s wand.

_Give me one good reason to choose the alternative._

He nears them, as quietly as he can manage. They don’t notice him. He doesn’t mean to eavesdrop, but it’s surprising enough what he hears anyway.

“ – been the same since you went down in the dungeons. What did he do to you?” the Granger chit asked, looking at Potter with nothing but pure concern in her eyes.

“You know I’d sooner tell Hermione to stop coddling you, Harry, but I agree with her. The overgrown bat’s got you messed.” Weasley leaned closer to him, the vision of hesitancy as he whispered. “I… I’ve been hearing you at night. I know you try to be quiet, but we’ve all been hearing you crying.”

“Oh, _Harry_ ,” Granger had pitched in, sighing.

“Well, now I also know that I should learn a silencing spell,” Potter had glared, his cheeks red. He had drawn away from his friends to look at them – seeing the bewildered expressions on their faces, he had exhaled, deflating.

“…Sorry,” he told them, taking a hold of their hands in each of his. “Sorry,” he repeated.

“It’s alright, mate,” Weasley was quick to assure him, his free hand laying on Potter’s shoulder.

“What’s wrong, Harry?” Granger asked, softness in her voice.

Harry didn’t exactly know where to begin. “I… found out some things about myself.” He looked away. “Things I didn’t really want to know about. Maybe. _Yet._ ”

Granger continued on, looking unsure at how to phrase her next question. “Did Professor Snape… say something?”

“No,” Harry quickly said.

“You don’t have to cover for him –”

“It was my fault, Ron.”

It was shocking, having to hear Potter admit to his faults so freely. If parentage was anything to go by, he wouldn’t have thought the boy capable.

Having heard enough, Snape approached them, making sure to sound his boots as loudly as he can against the stone floor. The group startled at the sound, all three pairs of eyes darting toward him immediately.

“Weasley, Granger,” he greeted, before settling his eyes on Harry. “Potter. Congratulations on winning the house cup.” He couldn’t exactly stop curling his lip in displeasure, knowing full well that had Albus not awarded last-minute points, Slytherin would have won.

The two other Gryffindors shifted, obviously rattled by his sudden appearance, but Snape paid them no mind, keeping his sight on the green eyes. “Might I have a word?”

“Yes, professor,” Harry said. Snape walked a few paces away, the boy following after him. “I’ll meet you in the common room, alright?” He heard him say to his friends, to which the two muttered their agreement to. They had stopped when Snape reached an alcove, private enough to talk without prying eyes to see and nosy ears to overhear.

With the boy so close looking up at him, Snape could definitely make out dark lines under Potter’s eyes. He felt a certain twinge of sympathy – which had him feeling guilty for a second, and _strange_ a whole minute longer – he didn’t usually associate that emotion with a Gryffindor, much less the son of his most hated enemy _and_ his most venerated love. But Potter _had_ just gone through obstacles no first year should have gone through, with smashing success – help withstanding. He _had_ just survived a certain attempt at his life, he _had_ been exposed to truths he wasn’t yet equipped to handle, and he _had_ been giving Snape the dignity he deserved as his superior, despite his (Potter’s, not Snape’s) seemingly natural talent to be belligerent and wise-cracking.

Severus decided he wasn’t about to be outdone by _a child_.

“I couldn’t help but catch the tail end of your conversation,” he says calmly. Potter flusters, out of instinct, looking somewhat guiltily at him – but calms when he remembers he hadn’t said anything particularly nasty. “I have to admit to some surprise. It seems you haven’t told them.”

“Er –” Potter looks a little unsure about answering. “ – yes. I have not.”

“I wonder why,” Snape states, not asking.

“Well, I thought it was none of their business,” Harry says, and though there wasn’t much bite behind it, Snape wanted so easily to counter, _neither were my memories yours._

He doesn’t. He watches Harry blink, with seemingly heavy eyes. “I didn’t want them worrying over me,” he had said in addition.

“As if they weren’t already,” Snape comments, eyes narrowing a fraction. “They seemed adamant enough to think it was my doing.”

Harry, who had been watching Snape’s face closely, cringes. “And I tried to assure them it wasn’t. I accept responsibility for my fault, Sir,” Harry replies, and it seems tired, coming from his mouth. “You could hardly be blamed. You weren’t even in the room with me.”

“Yes,” Snape agrees, feeling a little vindicated by Harry’s own acknowledgment. _Do you hear it, Albus,_ he thinks to himself, wanting to gloat at the older man.

“Nonetheless, some fault was mine,” he adds, and it is true. He was foolish enough to leave his private space unattended. Though Harry was a menace of himself, falling into his memories, it could have been anyone – and a bigger danger to Dumbledore’s side of the war could have happened. “You would not have fallen into the Pensieve if I had not been more… attentive… of my space.”

“Is that what it’s called?” Harry tries the word on his tongue. “A pensieve.”

“Yes. It has the capacity to store memories, both for my or another’s viewing pleasure _, as you know._ ” And at that, Potter has the decency to look sorry. Snape appreciates it. “It’s significantly more accurate than keeping a diary, and much less chaotic.”

The boy gnaws on his lip, looking for all the world, unsure of himself. He takes a deep breath before he looks Snape in the eye. “I’m… sorry about the incident, Sir.”

“Save me the pretense, Potter, you’ve hardly disgraced my honor,” Snape says, scowling almost automatically, just to save face. Truthfully, Potter _had_ somewhat disgraced his honor, going through his best-kept secrets in one sitting, regardless of whether it was intentional or not. His vulnerability at being stripped by his tormentors, in more ways than one – at being hopelessly in love – and now, just as hopelessly making up for his reprehensible actions, day by day, by working for the Order in disguise. Not that there was much going on at the moment – but he was convinced that a day might come where it bites him in the ass.

“I still am sorry about it, Professor,” Harry says, quietly, cheeks burning – as if shy to admit remorse to Snape’s face. It was refreshing to see him do it anyway, the cursed Gryffindor courage benefiting Snape for once. “Some of the memories involved me, but I mostly saw… you.”

Snape knows in the back of his mind that he could be seething, frothing at the mouth in fury, shouting angrily. But he also knows, in the back of his mind, that he had expected a different outcome: an indignant Potter, angry at him for holding a grudge against his father – a haughty Potter, gloating at him for being in love with his mother – a murderous Potter, or as murderous as eleven year olds go, for having been a follower of Voldemort in his youth.

He hadn’t counted on Potter to be – to be so understanding, and contrite, and _restrained._ And while Snape does not think himself above kicking a dog when it’s down, the very fact that Potter had been so – _civil,_ was the only word for it – to him made Snape feel uncomfortable.

He finds that he is not exactly sure what to say. After some moments of silence, with Potter looking up at him once more, expecting an answer of some sort – Snape had merely cleared his throat. “Well,” he starts, “there’s nothing we can truly do about it now.”

It’s not. Memory charms are still on the table. But the slow smile that spreads across Harry’s face takes Snape’s entire focus.

“I _am_ sorry, Professor. Truly,” Potter reminds him. “– but in some ways, I’m thankful.”

The boy opens up a little – Snape can see the warmth that grows full force in the boy’s pupils, and the relief that seems to seep in his bones. Harry’s looking away from him, his gaze on some portion of Snape’s dress robes, and Snape watches the green eyes glaze.

“I’ve never seen my mother – well, outside of what I _wanted_ to see from the Mirror of Erised,” he clarifies. Snape wonders why the boy neglects to mention his father – although, judging by the last Legilimency he had cast on the boy, it wasn’t so surprising. He had somewhat of an idea of the turbulent thoughts Harry must have been having about his father. It was only natural he would have latched to the memory of Lily – the memories he had seen through Snape’s own fond eyes.

“Seeing her be her actual self, it was… nice,” Harry admits. “Nevermind that she wasn’t my mother yet.”

Harry thankfully does not mention the only memory Snape has of Lily in her mothering years. Her eyes open but unseeing, her body limp against Snape’s as he held her in his arms. He had sobbed uncontrollably, almost to a certain hysteria. He suddenly wishes Harry hadn’t seen it – not exactly to preserve his dignity as his professor, but more to spare him of the same maddening grief, having to look at Lily that way.

The boy blinks once, then twice, before his eyes clear and he remembers who he’s talking to. He freezes; he feels every bit embarrassed to be caught at such a vulnerable moment. It’s a good enough look on him – pure shame, flaming and red on his cheeks – a rather wonderful juxtaposition to the boy he’d been the entire year, from something as minor as answering cheekily during Potions class or something as pivotal as protecting the Philosopher’s Stone. More than that, it greatly made up for the same embarrassment Snape himself had been feeling all week.

It’s awkward enough feeling this sentimental about his past – Lily, particularly – more when he considers that of all the people he had bared himself to, it is to Potter. The son of the man who had tormented him constantly in his youth, the boy who bore the same face, the same air, the same brashness, the same challenging look. Harry sometimes stared at him the same way James would when he dared Snape to defend himself.

But not anymore. Not since the incident.

It was both unsettling and thrilling.

Snape pushes the journal toward Harry’s chest before he can even hope to berate himself. Seeker-quick hands wrap around the notebook before it can touch the wool on his sweater.

“What’s this?” Potter asks, a little dumbly.

“Every day I wonder how you’ve managed to make it this far,” Snape answers dryly.

Harry wants to snap, but the tentative calm he’s managed to establish with Snape stops him. “Er – I knew what it was,” he amends, looking down at the notebook as if it had a helpful label of some kind. There was none on the front page. He flips through it, to find it empty. “I just meant… well, the school year’s ended, so I don’t see the need –”

“It’s a notebook I’ve fixed with a Protean charm. I’ve it’s partner.” At the empty stare Potter gives him, Snape manages to withhold a sigh to explain. “The Protean charm allows objects to change in a synchronized manner – that is, whatever you write on it, I shall receive on my own copy of the notebook, and vice versa. The charm is N. E. W. T. level and therefore beyond your current understanding; but then again, this wouldn’t your first first time learning of things beyond what is expected of you.”

Harry flushes, but the novelty of the idea seems to overpower his shame, because he beams as well. “That’s brilliant!” It jolts Snape, how amazed he is – we live in a _magical_ world, for Merlin’s sake, anything is possible – and it reminds him of just how young Harry really was. It makes him want to wince, but he pushes on.

“The… _incident_ … has no doubt changed what you think of me to a certain degree, and admittedly, what I think of you. Albus had thought it wise if we…” and the squint Harry makes at him almost causes Snape to stop, “made amends.”

“I’ve already apologized –” Harry starts.

“The Headmaster expects more,” Snape says simply. _Of me_ , he wants to add, but as much as he enjoys the self-flagellating Potter who would no doubt take the blame for the entire incident, there was only so much chivalry he could handle before he started feeling like a damsel in distress. And God forbid he think of that – of Potter as his protector – when the boy’s entire lifespan was based on the premise that _Snape_ protected him. _He_ had the life debt to pay, _he_ had the mistake to correct. Not Potter.

It doesn’t exactly mean he’ll come easy, though. In his head, he’s already hexed Dumbledore a thousand times over for dumping the responsibility of Harry’s emotional welfare on him. He was hardly a functional guidance counselor for his own life; let alone someone else’s. But then again, that came with the job of protector, didn’t it?

In every undertaking Snape took, he’s proud to say he hasn’t failed yet – and he wasn’t about to start now.

“The Headmaster?” Harry’s voice raises. “What’s he doing meddling with us?”

Snape can’t help the snort that escapes him. _You barely know the half of it,_ he thinks, as he watches Harry smile at his reaction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: yeaa i just edited the chapter sorry no new chapter yet
> 
> yo hi to anyone out there? so like i'd appreciate more comments about the characterization? i'm kind of worried my snape and harry are turning out pretty ooc but then again a lot of fanfics are also ooc and i dont know if my ooc thing is like within an acceptable range of ooc or like cringe-worthy ooc 
> 
> anyway thank u so much for staying tuned


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